


A Grey Area

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Bondage, Impact Play, Interrogation play, Javert is too kinky for sensible discussion, M/M, Rivette is too turned on to mediate, Valjean is too traumatised for kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23618101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Rivette needs to know how to handle himself if he’s captured by criminals, so Javert recruits an ex-con to help him practice. That’s all that’s happening, nothing else to see here.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean, Javert/Rivette (Les Misérables), Javert/Rivette/Jean Valjean, Rivette/Jean Valjean
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	A Grey Area

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



“Don’t waste my time.” Javert’s fist tightens in Rivette’s hair. His other hand closes over Rivette’s wrist, which isn’t going anywhere since it’s bound to the arm of the chair, and leans in. Rivette’s eyes widen, but Valjean suspects he’s not quite as fearful as Javert wants him to be.

Valjean’s standing at a safe distance, his back to the wall. He hopes his face is still the implacable mask he perfected in Montreuil, but he’s close to the door in case things turn ugly and he needs to bolt. It won’t come to that, he reminds himself. Javert is a reformed character, and it’s not as though he’d ever hurt his loyal deputy. Not _really_ hurt him, anyway.

And it’s not as though Rivette would be likely to object if he did, Valjean thinks ruefully. But that’s up to them — if they want to play these games, they’re welcome to dance around each other for as long as they like. That’s none of his business.

And this is business. Or at least, that’s what Javert told him when he invited Valjean to this small rented room. The inn downstairs is noisy enough to guarantee no one will hear them and the innkeeper gave Javert and Rivette a conspiratorial nod as the three of them entered. They aren’t acting on Gisquet’s orders, but Valjean wouldn’t be here if it was. This is more of a grey area: He’s not assisting the police, he’s doing Javert a favour. It was a regular event back when Javert was still working, Javert had explained with a smile that Valjean couldn’t quite understand. A kind of informal training session. And Rivette needs it more than ever now Javert’s off the force and can’t look out for him.

It was obvious Rivette wasn’t expecting Javert to arrive with company. But he gave Valjean a rueful smile and a nod when the three of them arrived. “Should have known you’d be coming along,” he said when Javert retreated to a corner to unpack a coil of rope. “I hope he’s given you more warning than he gave me.”

Now Javert is looming over Rivette, close enough for his breath to tickle Rivette’s throat, and Valjean notices his jaw is clenched shut. Rivette’s eyes flutter closed. He isn’t wearing the expression of a man undergoing torture, for all that he’s gripping the arms of the chair. But it’s still hard to witness. Valjean keeps his eyes on Rivette’s hands. He tries not to look at the ropes biting into his wrists or the spreading pink mark Javert left blossoming on his cheek.

“You aren’t giving me what I want,” Javert says, his voice low and threatening. Rivette exhales shakily, obviously willing to give Javert just about everything he might want. He makes a small whimper, perhaps as a concession to the notion that he’s not supposed to be enjoying himself. Javert ploughs forward. “What do they know about our plans, your bosses?”

“Nothing!” Rivette chokes out. And then he pauses, opens his eyes and glances over his shoulder at Valjean. “Is that right? Do I want to say we don’t know anything or should I say we know everything?”

Javert glances at Valjean too, as though Valjean is qualified for anything other than withstanding some rough handling. Valjean shrugs. “Say you don’t know anything. Then you can’t give anything away.”

Javert snorts. “And whoever’s captured him might as well slit his throat, safe in the knowledge that no one will come and look for him.”

“If he says he knows everything, they’ll beat him half to death trying to get it out of him.”

Javert makes a contemplative sound. “Well, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To show him how to take a beating.” His gaze sharpens, as though he’s realised for the first time how much distance Valjean has placed between himself and this little training session. “Why don’t you come closer? You can’t be much help over there, can you?”

Valjean swallows, nods and pushes himself off the wall. Javert indicates that he should stand behind Rivette’s chair and Valjean moves. He barely feels his feet touch the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Javert says, baring his teeth. “No one’s going to practice on you. I just want you near enough to help him out.”

“Sir, if he’s not comfortable—” Rivette begins to say. Javert cuts him off with a sharp look and Rivette flashes Valjean an apologetic grimace. Valjean settles behind him, one hand on the back of the chair. He fights the urge to lay a hand on Rivette’s shoulder. He’d like to offer Rivette some comfort, but he has a feeling that Rivette would be far more comforted by Valjean’s absence than his presence.

“It’s fine,” Valjean mutters, not entirely graciously. But Javert is as single-minded in this as he is in all things. He’s too focused on Rivette to note that Valjean’s cultivated manners have slipped. Or perhaps he does notice: Maybe he’s all too pleased to remind Valjean that anyone can pull his mask away just by prodding him a little. Valjean tenses at the thought and then dismisses it. He’s no right to assume that. Javert, like all of them, is doing his best.

“So,” Javert says. “Here’s how I’d do it: If you say your chief knows all their plans and he’s galloping to your rescue, they’ll want to know more and they’ll try and beat it out of you. The other option? No one knows anything. The chief’s an idiot, you’re an idiot, won’t you please let me go Monsieur Gang Member? And where does that get you.”

Rivette’s mouth twists in acknowledgement. Neither of the options are good.

“So what do you do? You say nothing. You sit up straight, you tense your stomach,” Javert’s hand moves to Rivette’s midsection. There must be at least three layers of clothing between his hand and Rivette’s skin, but Rivette’s lips part a little at the pressure. Valjean braces himself for a blow that doesn’t land. Instead, Javert’s hand softens against Rivette’s stomach, his voice intimately low. “—and you take it. You don’t give them the satisfaction. They’ll find some things out whether you can help it or not, but you don’t give away anything they can’t figure out for themselves.”

“Javert, you can’t ask him to—” Valjean begins to interrupt, but he’s cut off as Javert levels his gaze at him.

“It’s what you’d do too,” Javert says. His eyes move rapidly up to meet Valjean’s gaze. Then he laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell him to burn a hole in his arm.”

Rivette twists around in the chair to regard Valjean, then back to Javert.

“Don’t you remember?” The question is ostensibly directed at Rivette, but Javert’s eyes are still on Valjean, his voice turning low and interested. “That little adventure at the Gorbeau house. The detail came up when I had a chat with Thenardier. This wealthy gentleman fights off a whole gang and brands himself with an iron to show them he means business.”

“It made the point,” Valjean says, ashamed and curiously proud all at once. “And I was protecting my child, not a few police secrets.”

For a moment, Javert’s expression freezes. There’s still a part of him, Valjean knows, that is bound as tightly to the police as he himself is to Cosette. And the grief of disentangling himself from that structure — he’s not entirely free and yet no longer so inextricably entwined — can strike him unawares, just as it does Valjean. Normally Valjean is more careful with him, but the past hour has been trying.

Javert recovers himself. “Either way, we don’t want my deputy to get himself killed.”

Rivette is technically no longer his deputy, but they all know what he means. And none of them can argue with the truth of Javert’s statement. Valjean hmphs in acknowledgement.

Still, if this is supposed to be a demonstration of a perilous situation, Rivette isn’t really getting into the spirit of it. Now that Javert isn’t muscling into his personal space, he looks almost calm, as though the ropes at his wrists have released him from an unseen burden. It’s the look of a man who’s never been bound by anyone he wouldn’t trust with his life. Does Javert realise? He must know on some level that none of his other men would sign up for this strange training session. 

But then, Valjean thinks, Javert excels at not knowing things he would prefer not to know.

Javert’s hand is still on Rivette’s stomach. “So. Ready to show us what you can take?”

Rivette swallows, nods, braces himself. Valjean is readying himself too, but Javert doesn’t bother to ask if he can handle it. There’s a purpose to this, he reminds himself. It could save a man’s life someday. Still, he doesn’t like how easily Javert drives his fist into Rivette’s stomach. He doesn’t like the way Rivette doubles forward, gasping in his chair or the split second when Javert’s eyes flicker up to watch his reaction.

“Tighten your stomach muscles,” Javert snaps. He hits Rivette again, but Rivette is still winded from the first blow and just keeps panting, sucking in air. Valjean moves quickly from behind the chair to kneel at Rivette’s side.

“Breathe,” he says, his voice low and urgent. He clasps Rivette’s bound hand, feeling the tremor of adrenaline running through Rivette’s body. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to remember that the man in front of him is bound of his own free will. Trying to erase the memory of a dozen young men broken under cudgels, lashed by whips and — worst of all — shot down at Javert’s signal.

“Breathe,” he says again, as much to himself as to Rivette. “Please. You’ll be all right, just take long, steady breaths.”

Rivette bends forward in the chair and takes heaving breaths. Valjean realises he’s gripping Rivette’s hand and unclenches his hold in alarm. When he looks up, Javert is eyeing him thoughtfully and a wave of nausea runs through Valjean. He’s tempted to bolt for the door. To leave this small room and pretend he was never here.

Javert laughs, but it’s not a cruel laugh. He’s sensible enough to keep his distance from Valjean as he runs a comforting hand down Rivette’s arm.

“He’s an officer of the police, Valjean,” Javert says evenly. “He’s taken worse than a gut punch. Want to show him your scars, Rivette?”

“Maybe when I get to know him better,” Rivette chokes out between gasps and Javert chuckles. His hand is in Rivette’s hair again, but now it’s stroking through damp curls and Rivette’s leaning into the touch. Valjean’s stomach twists.

So, Valjean thinks, his nerves suddenly alight, none of this is an accident. Javert knows perfectly well what he’s doing and so does Rivette. Valjean swallows. He looks at the ropes, still biting into Rivette’s wrists, and remembers the look of calm that passed over Rivette when Javert secured him in place. Right now, with his muscles aching and his limbs tied down and Javert’s hand in his hair, Rivette looks as though he’s in a daze. And as Valjean watches them, feeling like a cornered animal, Javert’s attention shifts from Rivette to Valjean.

Yes, Javert knows what Rivette wants from him. And, even worse, Valjean knows now why Javert brought him here. He’s still on his knees beside the chair, a position that had seemed utterly natural a moment before and which now fills him with terrible anticipation. He wonders if it would have been different if Javert had _asked_. Instead, here they are, Javert’s eyes dark and fixed on Valjean. Valjean’s heart pounding.

It must be so easy, Valjean thinks with a surge of hopelessness, never to have been bound or struck or abused. There is A part of him — the part that tried to burn away his guilt with a hot coin, that was driven to chase Javert down after being set free on a hot summer night — that envies Rivette’s quiet calm, his utter trust in Javert. But if Javert tried to touch his hair, the tensed, clenched fear at the pit of Valjean’s stomach would make him liable to seize Javert by the arm. Or worse.

Perhaps, he thinks, that’s what makes Javert stare. Perhaps Javert is weighing his options, trying to figure out just how much Valjean will tolerate before breaking down.

When Javert speaks, his tone is contemplative. “He thinks you’ve suffered enough, Rivette. Or at least, he’s suffered enough of your suffering. What do you think about that?”

Rivette stirs, forced to look down and consider Valjean properly instead of attempting to block out the sight of him. His hands twitch a little in their restraints. “You all right, down there?” He nudges Valjean’s knee with a gentle foot. “This— ah. It can be a bit overwhelming if you’re new to it.”

“I am not _new_ to any of this,” Valjean bites out. But he leans into the touch gratefully, pressing a hand to Rivette’s knee. 

Rivette shoots a questioning glance at Javert then back at Valjean. Javert sighs and stoops beside Valjean. His hand moves slowly, giving Valjean plenty of warning. When he touches Valjean’s jaw, his grip is light enough that Valjean could easily break away. “What do you think, Jean Valjean?”

Valjean shrugs. Of course Javert doesn’t understand him. He never has.

“Are you surprised by all this? You can leave if you like. But I don’t think that’s what you want,” Javert’s grip tightens by a fraction. Valjean can bear it.

“I—” Valjean’s hands ball uselessly into fists. Then, with a conscious effort, he unclenches them. Javert’s grip on his jaw is not painful. It does not feel like being forced. But still, he saw the light in Javert’s eyes as Rivette’s head snapped sideways under the weight of his hand. He saw the way Rivette went still beneath the ropes and the way Javert watched his own reaction to each blow. What does Javert see when he puts his hand on Valjean’s face? Valjean wants nothing to do with it. But he does not want to leave.

Javert huffs impatiently and pushes himself to his feet. His fingertips brush Valjean’s cheek, the touch impossibly light. Valjean tries to imagine that hand pulling back to deliver a blow or gripping his shoulder to shove him to the ground. How would it feel, to be under the police’s power once more?

Javert is not the police anymore, he reminds himself. But he has not entirely severed the connection. 

The hand on Valjean’s face does not move. Valjean inhales. Exhales. Feels the roughened palm and the warmth of blood move with him. Is this Javert’s old patience? The predator allowing his prey to come to him? Or is this a newfound gentleness? So much of Javert’s motivation is still a mystery to Valjean.

“Or we could find another use for you. Perhaps you aren’t suited to the task I had in mind,” Javert murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful. His touch is still incongruously gentle in this room where nothing has been gentle until a few moments ago. “No shame in that, of course.”

A snort from Rivette. Valjean glances up and Rivette is wearing a bemused half-smile. Valjean thinks he has an idea why that might be. Of course the old Javert would have held his men to the same rigorous standards he held himself to.

Javert turns to look at the bound man. “Something to say for yourself, Rivette?”

“Nothing, sir.” Rivette twists his mouth, as though he’s trying to work up the courage to say something. Finally he says, “retirement is treating you well, that’s all.”

“In other words, he thinks I’ve gone soft. Maybe I have.” Javert’s hand threatens to tighten its grip for a moment, but he stills his hand and Valjean exhales a relieved breath. “Maybe I’ve just begun to consider different possibilities.”

He removes his hand and lays it on Rivette’s knee. Rivette’s legs splay open with barely a touch, as though he’s been waiting all night for this. If his arousal wasn’t already apparent before, there’s no denying it now. He shoots Valjean an anxious look but then his eyes dart away, back to Javert.

“There are other ways to extract information from a man, after all,” Javert says. “Valjean, would you like to help Rivette practice his restraint?”

Valjean looks at the bulge in Rivette’s trousers. “Would you be willing?” he asks Rivette, because someone ought to. And because he doesn’t feel certain himself. He places a tentative hand on Rivette’s knee. Rivette groans and lets his legs fall further open. It’s answer enough.

“What should I do?” Valjean’s voice is rough. This is the easier route, he thinks. The act can be violent, but there is no need for it to be so. 

Javert’s hand moves to cup the back of his neck, soft and still. It urges Valjean forward without force, until his face is between Rivette’s legs, his nose almost touching the straining fabric. He can smell sweat and salt through the taut cloth. “Don’t undress him yet. Just stay as you are and use your mouth.”

Valjean’s hands are braced on Rivette’s thighs and as he draws his lips against the fabric, he feels them go taut and then begin to tremble in his grip. Somewhere above him, he hears a whimper and then Javert’s name. He traces the hardening outline with his tongue, half determined to block out the sounds that aren’t meant for him and half guiltily intrigued.

Javert’s hand tightens in his hair, drawing him back and prompting an impatient sound from Rivette.

“Very good,” Javert says, the praise lapping at Valjean’s edges like warm water. “Now tell me, Rivette. Where does Monsieur Gisquet keep his private stash of cognac?”

Rivette makes a noise of surprise and then clamps his mouth shut. Javert hums thoughtfully and then nudges Valjean’s shoulder. “Get him out.”

Valjean glances up. Rivette’s eyes are fixed on Javert, but he looks as though he’d like nothing more than for Valjean to do as he’s told. So Valjean does, allowing Javert’s low instructions to direct him. Unfasten this. Push that aside. Now use your hands to get it hard. Valjean has not always taken instruction well, but there is something satisfying about being able to offer this now. And perhaps it’s all the easier like this, with all of Rivette’s attention on Javert and Javert’s hand in his hair.

Rivette is already most of the way there. Valjean wraps a clumsy hand around him and he groans. If he’s self conscious, it doesn’t show. Valjean can’t imagine trusting Javert so entirely. But Rivette is a decent enough man, as police officers go. If he’s willing to put himself in Javert’s hands, it reflects well on Javert.

“A little tighter at the base,” Javert’s voice is soft. Valjean tightens his grip and Rivette’s breath catches. Javert’s thumb traces behind Valjean’s ear and he shivers. “Good. Now, Rivette: What do you think of your new chief?”

Rivette chokes on a shocked laugh. “You know I can’t discuss police matters with outsiders,” he says. “Sir.”

Javert makes a disappointed sound, but now his fingers are stroking through Valjean’s hair and Rivette’s hips are twitching under his hands. “Take your hand away,” he tells Valjean, and Valjean obeys. To his shock, he feels an echoing tug of need as he releases Rivette.

He’s even more shocked when Javert leans forward, one hand still in Valjean’s hair, tilts Rivette’s jaw up and kisses him. Rivette’s hands strain against the ropes. His legs spread further to allow Javert to press closer until Javert is pressed against Valjean’s back and Valjean is crowded up against Rivette and Rivette is angled upwards, open. 

Javert is hard, Valjean realises distantly as if realising that the solid ground beneath him has turned to sand. Of course Javert is hard. He knew it well enough before, and yet the reality of it is a shock.

Finally Javert pulls away. Valjean fixes his eyes on the floor and listens to their breaths.

“What do you think of your new chief?” Javert asks again, his voice rough.

“I miss my old one,” Rivette says, breathless, and Javert makes a noise of surprised approval that sends a tremor through Valjean. 

“Really? I heard he was a blind, ruthless devil.”

“He was hard work,” Rivette’s voice was rough with emotion. “But he was always hardest on himself.”

Javert doesn’t reply. He draws back and Valjean can breathe again. The hand in his hair is shaking and Rivette’s thighs are vibrating under his hands. Then Javert urges him forward, guiding his head closer to Rivette’s straining prick.

“I’m going to have my man suck you,” Javert says to Rivette. There’s a deliberate laziness to his tone, but his hand is still trembling against Valjean’s skin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I could live with it,” Rivette’s voice is tight. 

“He’s going to get your secrets out of you. Aren’t you?” This is directed at Valjean. The hand grips a little tighter, painlessly, in his hair. Valjean shivers, unable to speak. “ _Aren’t_ you?” There’s a wariness in Javert’s tone. He’s loosened his grip and Valjean wishes it would tighten again.

“I’ll do my best,” he says at last, lowering his eyes. He’s not unwilling but ashamed of his inexpertise.

“You’ll do your best,” Javert agrees. “The man who spent a lifetime evading me. Who rose from nothing to become mayor of a town. Who raised a lady out of a—” he cuts himself off. “Yes, I’m sure your best will suffice.”

Valjean draws a shaking breath. Javert is also doing his best, he reminds himself. And then, if only to halt the rising tide of memories Javert’s words have sparked within him, he parts his lips and lowers himself.

Rivette’s hips jerk upwards to meet him. Valjean may be unskilled in this, but Rivette is an appreciative partner. And it helps, Valjean thinks ungenerously, that Javert’s kept him on the edge for the best part of an hour now. Valjean has no illusions in this: Rivette’s groans and sobs are sincere enough, but they’re all for Javert.

He takes in as much of Rivette as he can, his mouth unaccustomed to the shape and weight of another man. He feels clumsy, his mouth slick with his own saliva as Rivette’s prick slips out, smearing wetness across his cheek and chin. He gasps a little.

“All right?” Rivette has torn his attention away from Javert. He’s panting a little too, but his eyes are on Valjean. If his hands were free, Valjean thinks, he might drag a thumb over Valjean’s chin, cleaning the worst of the mess up. Instead, he just presses his knee into Valjean’s side, the gesture crowding him in but well intended.

Valjean nods, suddenly breathless. Rivette’s mouth is still reddened from Javert’s kiss, and while Valjean can’t imagine what it would be like to let Javert kiss him, he’s struck by the sudden urge to rise up on his knees and brush his mouth against Rivette’s. The thought sets him reeling. Valjean has never kissed a man. Has never wanted to do so. But now he’s had Rivette’s prick in his mouth, he feels somehow cheated out of the ordinary order of courtship. He feels, inexplicably, that Javert and Rivette have conspired to rob him of a first kiss, one that was never owed or promised him.

Those thoughts grind to a halt when he remembers the stark red stain Javert left on Rivette’s cheek. He sinks back onto his heels, resigned to his role in this. Like Javert, Rivette needs something he can’t give. And unlike Javert, Rivette doesn’t want it from him. He swallows against the rising bitterness and bends his head to his task again. It doesn’t take long for Rivette’s warm concern to melt into soft cries and then jerking, helpless thrusts. It won’t take much longer, Valjean thinks. Just a little more pressure and this will be done. Just a little more—

Javert’s hand tightens in his hair, yanking him back. And this time there’s no restraint. This, he thinks, is how Javert wishes he could handle him whenever he likes. The pain of Javert’s grip is bearable, but the knowledge of Javert’s desire is searing. Valjean squeezes his eyes shut against it.

“Looks like my man’s done a decent job,” Javert’s voice is rough. He cups Rivette’s jaw, tilting his face up. “Would you like him to finish you off?”

Rivette looks down at Valjean. His eyes flicker up to Javert and he moistens his lips, searching for the right answer. Or at least, the answer that will cause the least amount of pain to the fewest of them.

“He’s good,” Rivette says.

“That isn’t what I asked.” 

“I—” Rivette swallows again. It’s obvious what he wants, but that isn’t what Javert’s offering.

“It’s not a difficult question, Rivette.” Javert’s voice is low. His hand leaves Rivette’s jaw, drops down to close around his prick. Rivette whines. “Do you want him to finish you off?”

“No,” Rivette chokes out. “Yes. But, no. Sir. No.”

“And what do you want?”

“Your hand. Please, sir.”

Javert laughs softly. His hand softens in Valjean’s hair, a thumb stroking behind Valjean’s ear. “Told you we’d get the truth out of you,” he says. “Now watch carefully, Valjean.”

Valjean does. He watches Rivette buck helplessly into Javert’s grip. Javert handles him mercilessly but not roughly, his hand moving with practiced certainty, swiping the slickness gathering at Rivette’s tip to ease each stroke. He doesn’t tease or indulge. He doesn’t waste time. Rivette, already on the brink and more than willing, succumbs easily with a shuddering gasp.

As his breath slows, Valjean realises his own breath is slowing. He becomes distantly aware of his own erection, just as he remembers Javert’s is still standing behind him. Javert’s hand is still in his hair, and when Valjean turns his head, he can see everything he needs to know from the state of Javert’s trousers.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert says softly. And it isn’t the predator’s voice. He sounds stunned, as though he’s only just realising that, yes, Valjean is here before him. Javert takes a shaky step backward, his hand falling away from Valjean’s hair, and Valjean is shocked by the loss of his touch.

“Javert—” he begins to say. But Javert is already striding towards a washbasin in the corner.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Javert says. There’s an alarming uncertainty in his tone, but then he seems to regain his composure. “I’m sure Rivette is grateful for your assistance.”

Valjean’s mouth opens and then closes. He is not sure what he can bear to ask or offer. Instead he watches Javert hesitate, take a half step towards him and then turn briskly and head for a washbasin in the corner of the room.

“I’ll settle up with the landlord,” Javert snaps over his shoulder. “Get him cleaned up, the prefecture will want him in working order tomorrow morning.”

Valjean stares at Rivette, who’s slumped in the chair looking boneless and happy. His prick lies limp across his thigh like a discarded thing, staining his trousers. Does Javert want him to…?

Valjean fumbles for a handkerchief and applies it as gently as he can to Rivette, soaking up the worst of the mess. He carefully tucks Rivette back under layers of fabric with hands that are not entirely steady. He buttons Rivette up as well as he can. 

Somewhere behind him, a door clicks shut. When he looks up, Rivette is watching him through half-lidded eyes. 

“Some things never change. He always makes himself scarce as soon as he can get away with it. Untie me, will you?”

Valjean does, moving as if in a dream. These are not such difficult orders, he thinks distantly. And orders have always been easier to follow when Javert is gone. He allows the silence to envelop him as he works at the knots. Underneath, there are red marks chafed into the skin. Valjean takes each hand in his and kisses the inside of each wrist, unwilling to leave this strange peace after the chaos in his head. His erection has not subsided, but it is quieter. Rivette plucks a hand free and runs it through Valjean’s hair, sending a trembling shock through Valjean’s body.

“You handled that well,” Rivette murmurs. “And, ah, it may not feel this way, but so did he.”

Valjean turns his face into Rivette’s hand. He presses his lips to the wethered palm and thinks about it wrapped around a truncheon or a pair of handcuffs. He wonders if Rivette knows he has begun to weep.

“He’s changed,” Rivette is saying. “Maybe he’s trying to hide it, but he has. He’s the same in some ways. He’s still impatient, stilll...” the hand leaves Valjean’s hair, as Rivette clutches helplessly at something in the air that he can’t touch. Then it’s back, stroking carefully. 

“But something’s different. Whatever it is you’ve done to him, it’s good.” Rivette falls silent a moment. Then he laughs. “ Good for him, anyway.”

“Not so good for you?”

“Well, at least he still wants to...” Rivette can’t seem to form the words for whatever this is. Valjean wonders if he and Javert ever found a name for it. “For now, at least.”

“I won’t be much use to him if this is what he wants,” Valjean says, his voice low, half hoping Rivette won’t hear him. He still remembers the ache of Javert’s grip in his hair, the shame of being ordered into position. Still, kneeling here with Rivette’s hands in his hair and his nerves still alight, he is not so certain.

Rivette doesn’t say anything, just strokes Valjean’s hair. His foot nudges Valjean’s knees apart. Valjean makes a sound of protest and Rivette clicks his tongue. He drops to his knees beside Valjean, reaching between his legs. “Come on. You’ve earned it.”

Valjean gasps at the touch, embarrassed by his body’s eagerness, but he doesn’t protest. Rivette works quickly, getting him out in a moment. At least Javert isn’t here, he thinks. It would be worse, if Javert could see him taken apart. Rivette’s hand moves with practiced assurance. He closes his eyes and imagines Rivette taking hold of Javert in a quiet moment like this one, Javert’s hand on the back of Rivette’s neck. He tries to picture Javert receiving pleasure. Would he submit to it reluctantly, hold onto control until the last moment? Or would his grip slacken? His eyes fall closed?

“Jean Valjean,” Rivette breathes. His lips are close to Valjean’s cheek, his whole body pressed up against Valjean’s side as his hand moves. He says Valjean’s name again, as if turning over the sound of it in his mouth. Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean. And Valjean twists his head around, catches Rivette’s face in his hands and kisses him, rough and unpracticed. 

He remembers Javert’s kiss, the way Rivette opened up for it, and tries to find a little of that hunger in himself. But Rivette won’t allow it. He kisses Valjean with frustrating patience, the slowness of the kiss and the firm, sure strokes pulling Valjean apart with an impossible kindness. And for a moment, everything is simple. Rivette’s kiss asks a question and his hand gives the order and there is no shame in giving in. There’s no pain or humiliation; nothing to question. Valjean comes, shuddering and gasping into Rivette’s mouth, clutching Rivette as close as he can. 

Afterwards, Rivette cleans him up, just as he cleaned Rivette. Valjean has the strange sensation of having cheated Javert out of this quiet intimacy, just as he was cheated out of his first kiss. But Javert left of his own accord. Perhaps he doesn’t care about such things.

Rivette’s hands move on Valjean’s body. Valjean watches, remembering that still, silent feeling of performing a service. He has a feeling that he and Rivette understand one another better than they imagined. 

“I’m going to make you a bargain,” Rivette says at last, still slumped against Valjean’s side. He presses his lips to Valjean’s clothed shoulder. His hand finds Valjean’s and rests on top of it, not gripping too tightly. The back of his wrist is chafed red where he struggled against the ropes. “If you don’t ruin anything for me, I’ll make sure he doesn’t ruin anything for you. How about that?”

Rivette says it lightly, as though it’s a joke. As though the three of them aren’t risking anything worse than a little awkwardness or the loss of an evening’s entertainment. Valjean swallows, feeling too fragile for promises. But there’s a promise and a plea in Rivette’s uncertain smile, and Rivette’s been more generous than Valjean deserves. He locks his fingers with Rivette’s. It isn’t quite an agreement — nothing is set down between them, nothing even fully explained. But perhaps they understand one another. They breathe.


End file.
